


Sicker

by ratedgrandr



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:42:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratedgrandr/pseuds/ratedgrandr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire gives up alcohol. Enjolras is stuck with the responsibility of taking care of the sick man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sicker

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god this is the first thing I have posted on this website and you guys are all so amazing so go easy on this fic, because I am kind of proud of it. This is me rambling ok, you just want to read the fic now.

The first day hadn’t been bad. Really, it hadn’t. The second day was long and exhausting, but he had taken it in stride and handled himself. The third day? That was when it really hit him hard.

Eponine had picked him up from work and he’d looked… utterly exhausted, but he was alive, still standing on two feet though his knees shook and a glistening sheen had gathered on his brow. His eyes were distant, and she could tell work had been like a marathon, but he was going home now, and that was all that mattered. “Take a left,” Grantaire muttered at a light where she should have been going right. Eponine didn’t question, just nodded once and turned her flasher on to get over a few lanes. She could feel the discomfort rolling off of Grantaire’s skin, could tell he was doing his best to hold it all in and seem normal. But he was so far from normal now, and she was worried about him.

She knew what the left meant: Enjolras. His apartment was only a few blocks down the street from the café where Grantaire worked, and in seconds Eponine pulled into the drive, her hand momentarily finding his as her wide brown eyes met his cloudy blue ones. There seemed to be relief there, and gratitude for her lack of questioning. Eponine always knew when to ask and when to stay quiet.

“Text me if you need anything.” He nodded once. “Do you need my spare to get in?” Still no words, just a shake of his head. “Be safe, then.” He didn’t even wait for the last word to part from her lips before he was off, heaving open the apartment door and barreling through the small apartment to the bathroom, where he promptly managed to heave up the meager lunch he’d forced himself to get down today.

\----

When Enjolras gets back to the small apartment he shares with Combeferre, the door is unlocked but shut, and there is a post-it on the counter. “Out for groceries,” it read in Combeferre’s neat script. Enjolras deposited his messenger bag and coat on the counter before meandering into his bedroom and stopping in the doorway, a mildly surprised look on his face at the sight before him. The sheets of his bed were tangled around Grantaire, twisting and turning to embrace the contours of his body, which was warped into a rather pathetic feeble position. A constant wave of shivers racked through Grantaire’s body, and as soon as a low groan that sounded almost painful spilled from R’s cracked lips, Enjolras’s fingers found his shoulder and shook him softly.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras waited for a reply, but all he got in response was a feeble whimper as R’s brow furrowed in his sleep and his legs thrashed out.

“Grantaire,” the blonde said in a more serious tone, worry now evident behind his words. “Hey, wake up,” he instructed as he shook R’s shoulder, fingers digging into his skin, pressing him to come back to consciousness.

A few minutes later and Taire’s eyes blinked open before he let out a soft whimper and rolled over. His face came into contact with Enolras’s thigh and immediately his body stiffened as he looked up. The relief that was on his features when he realized who it was, though, was utterly heart warming. “Apollo,” Grantaire croaked as his fingers curled around the first thing he could reach: Enjolras’s wrist.

Grantaire’s skin was feverish and his cheeks were flushed, but his fingers were icy cold as they twisted through Enjolras’s. “What are you doing here?” Enjolras asked, though it wasn’t meant to imply that he didn’t want Grantaire there; after all, he’d been the one to tell the dark haired man where to find the spare key and how you had to give the door a good shoving to get it open. Just to find R curled up in his bed in the fetal position… it was slightly unnerving, and he was relieved to see that R was alive.

“Haven’t had a drink in three days,” Grantaire murmured as he cleared his throat and pushed himself up off of the mattress. He was still fully clothed, but his hands were trembling and dark circles surrounded his eyes. He looked rough, worse off than he looked on some of his drunkest days.

A frown marred Enjolras’s face as he looked into the man’s eyes. “Impressive,” he complimented, obviously still confused.

“Because of the fight, and because –“ Grantaire breathed, his eyes averted.

“I told you I didn’t mean it, what I said, and –“

“ – you were right. I drink too much. I don’t take care of myself. So here I am, trying my damnedest to get healthy and getting dragged through hell for it.”

Enjolras remembered the fight in vivid detail; he remembered the flashing of R’s eyes, the way his own tongue had worked quickly and directly against him, calling Grantaire volatile and self-destructive, saying he couldn’t be around it, not now when so much was on the line. And then R had been pulling his jeans on, dressing himself and smirking in a way that had shattered Enjolras’s heart, uttering one simple phrase.

“These kinds of things are always too good to be true.”

The words echoed around Enjolras’s skull now as he pulled Grantaire in, holding the man tightly against his chest. A soft kiss was placed on the crown of his head as a sigh was heaved, and Enjolras lovingly brushed Grantaire’s curls back from his forehead. The fact that Grantaire had come here after the words that had been thrown the other day was… impressive. And Enjolras took it to heart that he wasn’t drinking. It was the proof he needed, and he was damn proud of Grantaire for it. For a solid forty-five minutes, Enjolras just held Taire, gently rocking him, caressing him with careful fingers. No words were said because they weren’t needed; the embrace said it all. Finally Grantaire shifted, pushing himself up again and shivering despite still having on his thick leather jacket. “If you want me to leave I will.”

His skin had taken on a waxy pallor, and a light sweat made his brow glisten in the evening light. Enjolras immediately felt awful for every bad word he’d ever said and never meant, for how could a man who wasn’t truly sorry put himself through such miseries as this? “No, stay, I… I want you to.” His voice was measured and careful, and Grantaire could see the thoughts flying through his brain at alarming rates. “You will stay here with me, at least until you’re better.”

Grantaire opened his mouth to protest. He refused to impose so immensely upon a man who had started out as nothing more than a good screw because feelings weren’t reciprocated. But the look on Enjolras’s face, so serious and intense and kind… It was too much. Besides, his skin was crawling in goose bumps and he could feel another bought of nausea coming on.

“No, you’re staying here. Really. I’ll take care of you. I –“ Enjolras was interrupted by Grantaire heaving himself up off of the bed and stumbling through the door way, knocking a lap off of a night stand as he went. Enjolras immediately stood, worried, and promptly entered the bathroom when he heard the sound of R’s dry heaving. “Oh, God, Grantaire…” his hands fluttered around R, looking for a part of him to soothingly pat or caress, and settled for rubbing his back as he heaved a few more times, wracking his whole body.

Grantaire rested his forehead against the edge of the toilet and hiccupped as a few involuntary tears streamed down his face. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled pathetically.

But Enjolras shook his head. “Don’t be. This is the strongest I’ve ever seen you.” He waited for R to sit up, and when he finally did Enjolras pulled one of the brunette’s arms over his shoulders and hoisted him up. Slowly they made their way back to the bedroom, where Enjolras carefully sat the listless cynic on the edge of his bed. Gentle fingers pried R’s jacket from his shaking frame before he instructed the other man to stand and shed his jeans and boots. It was done, and his Apollo offered him a pair of flannel sleep pants that were a few inches too short but would do the trick for tonight. Finally, Enjolras instructed him to get into bed. “I’m going to get you some soup, and –“

“Don’t, please. Don’t leave just… sit here with me.” Enjolras hesitated at the doorway, torn between getting the man the food he obviously needed or sliding into bed a few hours early tonight. He opted for the latter, shedding his own jeans and cardigan before sliding under the comforter Grantaire was currently buried in and pulling the other man against his chest. “Thanks,” R rasped out as a soft kiss was pressed to his forehead.

“Anything,” Enjolras mumbled as he soothingly rubbed circles down Grantaire’s back.

\----

Sleep came easily enough that night, but holding onto it was the hard part. It was illusive, like a summer’s breeze floating in through an open window, like the currents of the ocean tickling his toes but never sticking around to fully submerge his feet. Grantaire thrashed, tossing and turning and twisting into contours Enjolras never thought a body should be capable of, and all he could do was wrap him up in his strong grip, hold him tightly and soothingly brush the hair from his brow. Sometimes, R woke up of his own accord, gasping for air that he must have been dreaming wasn’t there, eyes scared and shifting as he flew up, gripping the sheets as if it would pin him to reality. Other times, Enjolras had to coax him awake with strict words and kind hands. And in between they both tried to rest, but it was useless.

It seemed like eternity before the sun peaked its golden head over the horizon. Enjolras was stiff from worry and tension, but he couldn’t lay in this cursed bed any longer. He placed a quick kiss to Grantaire’s forehead before slipping out of the bed and heading into the kitchen where he promptly fixed breakfast for him and Combeferre, who would probably be waking up soon enough.

“I heard him last night.” Enjolras’s head snapped up. His piercing eyes were baggy with black circles, his curls awry, his lips tight and pale. Combeferre looked well rested, granted Eponine was probably still curled up under his comforter in one of his t-shirts.

Enjolras stopped what he was doing – dicing onions for breakfast – and licked his lips hesitantly. “I’m sorry… I couldn’t turn him away. He’s a wreck, he hasn’t had a drink in three days, and –“ Combeferre held a hand up as if to say he understood and took a seat at one of the bar stools. Enjolras continued his cooking with a broken sigh. “I feel like it’s all my fault.”

“He wouldn’t appreciate your guilt,” Combeferre pointed out as he pressed his fingers together. Enjolras looked at him for a second before nodding once. “And… He’s in love with you.”

Love. It was a horrible word that Enjolras was careful not to drop because it was like a bomb, destroying everything human or otherwise in it’s path. If not right away then eventually, because there wasn’t a time limit on it. Things could explode as soon as it happened or fairly far down the road, and Enjolras wanted neither.

The word was even more dangerous when used as Combeferre had used it. To be in love with someone meant hopeless feelings of being lost in the other. It meant feelings of longing and need creeping up on you, encasing you and confining you before you’d even realized just how deeply in you were. His mind shuddered away from the thought, but there was something whispering within him, something trying to make itself known but that was instead stifled. He wouldn’t say it. Not in any realm would he admit to feelings stronger than affection.

“I know,” Enjolras sighed, a hand running through his curls as he composed an omlette in the skillet. There was an uneasy tension that filled the room as Ferre sipped at his coffee and Enjolras watched the eggs cook. What did you say to something like that? You didn’t, and that was the problem. But would his answer have been different if it was Grantaire before him? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know.

A loud banging noise caused both Enjolras and Combeferre to look up and towards their bedrooms. When no one appeared, Enjolras nodded towards the skillet. “Watch that,” he muttered to which the other man nodded once. He entered the bedroom cautiously to find Grantaire back in the bathroom on his hands and knees, heaving over the toilet. “Fuck,” he murmured as he approached. “Grantaire?” he said softly as his hand was placed on the other man’s back. R straightened up and shook his head as he pressed the heel of his palms over his eyes.

“Shit.” Grantaire’s voice was hoarse from the vomiting and soft from tiredness due to his lack of sleep. Enjolras helped him up, tucked him back into bed and sighed.

“Apollo.” One word. One stupidly simple word could say it all. The longing, the desire, the self-loathing… it all translated into that damn word.

Enjolras smiled lightly and collected Grantaire up into his arms. He wasn’t usually one for much physical interaction, but Grantaire was sick, and it would be a lie if he said he didn’t enjoy their light embraces. Before the fight it had been all sex; hell, sometimes Grantaire would leave immediately after, and wouldn’t even bother staying the night. Now it was soft touches, gentle kisses and a throbbing in Enjolras’s chest he refused to name. Was he really turning soft, and right now of all times?

“It’s ok, R. You’re going to make it,” he smiled lightly.

The next two weeks made it hard to believe those words, though. Grantaire was a mess, shaking and vomiting and hardly sleeping. When he did manage to find a slumber it was far from peaceful, ridden with awful dreams of times he refused to share with Enjolras. When he was awake he was distant, lethargic, and close to impossible. He snapped on a whim over nothing of relevance, he sat staring out the window for hours of time and occasionally Enjolras could hear him mumbling to himself.

Enjolras only left the house for class and work. The rest of his time he spent trying to nurse the man back to health.

It was after that second week that Grantaire showed positive improvement and that first night he slept peacefully Enjolras felt nothing but simplistic relief. He’d sat up for a good portion of the night just watching R breathe in and out, occasionally tracing his fingers across the contours of the man’s faces or the slope of his shoulders. The touches felt much more intimate than any sexual act they’d ever partaken in, and the feeling that washed over Enjolras had sent chills through him. And when Grantaire breathed his name that night, the blonde’s heart had irrationally fluttered.

Sleep was an interesting thing, if you thought about it. It was a state between total consciousness and unwanted unconsciousness. It was an accepted state of the unconscious, a conscious decision to trust your mind to wake you, to trust the world to protect you. Enjolras decided that in his sleep, Grantaire was beautiful. After this uphill struggle, the peaceful expression and the soft way the sick man’s lips curled up into a hint of a smile was a welcome sight, and Enjolras decided he wanted to memorize this. If this were foreshadowing for how the rest of their journey would go, he would take it. His arms squeezed Grantaire a little tighter as his breathing set to the same rhythm as Taire’s and his eyes fluttered closed much to his dismay. He hadn’t properly slept in two weeks and he needed it… but he wanted to watch this, document this moment for some unknown reason.

It was floating between the states of consciousness and sleep that Enjolras realized just why he longed so much to hold onto consciousness: he was falling in love.

And not in a ‘I want to sleep with you for the next three months and then see where this goes’ kind of a way. He was falling in an ‘I want to scream your name and hate how much I love you’ kind of way. In a way that made his gut clench nervously and made his fingers tense around Grantaire’s. He was falling in a way that was fire burning in his chest, that was strong enough to rival the revolution constantly playing out in his head and soft enough to make him question his whole faith and being. He was falling for the cynic, falling for the man who challenged him every day, who strove to make him become the best version of himself he could be. It seemed fitting, really.

And then he slipped off the edge of the cliff, abandoned the need to hold on, let himself get swept up in this new current. His lips parted against Grantaire’s smooth skin and before he could think, it had slipped out. The words spilled forth, filling the room with a kind of warmth Enjolras never realized phrases could bring. “I love you.” So simple, yet words like this usually complicated things. He held his breath, praying Grantaire was asleep, and after a few seconds resigned to his love being undeclared. It was for the best, he admonished, because he couldn’t afford to have his head in the clouds these days.

But then Grantaire’s lips parted, pulled in a contented breath as his fingers laced through Enjolras’s hair. Two words dripped from Grantaire’s lips then, words just as simple that caused Enjolras’s heart to do somersaults. “I know.”

\----

That week was bright with light kisses and tangled sheets and whispered words of adoration. Grantaire was doing much better, though he was still weak and paler than the white of Enjolras’s bed sheets. He spent a good majority of time apologizing to people who he might have offended with harsh words brought on by the withdrawal and intensified by his unease with where his relationship with Enjolras stood. That morning of unconscious proclamations of love Enjolras had woken him with a kiss which had been passionately returned, and to this day the revolutionary hadn’t a clue if Grantaire actually knew the words he’d uttered that night. He didn’t dare repeat them in a conscious state, not yet anyways, because all of this was good enough.

A month after his last drink and Grantaire was better. Really, he was more than better. But his wardrobe had shifted from his own apartment to Enjolras’s, and many of his things were randomly strewn about. His mark was left upon the two bedroom apartment, and every day he promised he would clean, pack up and head out. And every night he fell back into Enjolras’s bed, tangled in the only man he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Combeferre just watched with a smirk and a shake of his head, and Ponine continued bringing over R’s things when no one was watching. Grantaire couldn’t leave, not now when he was still so vulnerable Enjolras argued and Grantaire agreed.

Days turned to weeks and weeks turned to months. The apartment grew crowded and loud, but no one complained about it, and Grantaire never left.


End file.
